A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,
And, skill’d at whist, devotes the night to play:
Then, while such honours bloom around his head,
Shall he sit sadly by the sick man’s bed,
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that e’en the pious, feel?
Now once again the gloomy scene explore,
Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o’er,
The man of many sorrows sighs no more. -
Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow